


Dwelling on things left undone

by antennapedia



Category: The Hour
Genre: F/M, Nightmares, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Spanish Civil War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:12:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5544707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antennapedia/pseuds/antennapedia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Randall wakes from nightmares.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dwelling on things left undone

Randall wakes in the dead of the night, soaked with sweat. It is January, bitter cold in the city, and the electric fire in his flat is none too good. He slides out of bed, quietly, so not to wake Lix. Goes to the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water. He considers, briefly, the utility of giving up, giving in, getting dressed, making himself some coffee, and writing that précis on the situation in what he still thought of as Indochina.

The sweat on his face dries, and his heart slows to normal. The details of the dream do not fade, however. They never have. He will likely take the sight of that charnel house with him to his grave.

The light in the bedroom switches on, dim yellow glow. Lix comes out to him, yawning, running her fingers through her hair.

"What is it, Randall?" she says.

"Nightmares," he says, shortly.

"Oh. Is it-- What is it?"

"Guernica," he says. "The day after the bombing."

"You were there?"

"I gave my film to Steer because I couldn't bear the idea of developing it."

Lix touches his arm. "I hadn't known," she says.

"That's not the only one, of course. A decade of it." He looks at her over his water glass. "But that's what it was tonight."

She doesn't say anything. He doesn't have to explain it to her. She was with him during some of the moments he still sees at night, at the worst moments. He looks at the water glass, remembers when it had been whiskey or wine or whatever horrible bathtub gin the soldiers had distilled. He drinks, swallows, wipes water from his chin. Stubble against his fingers. It is late, and he is keeping Lix awake.

She takes the glass from him and sets it down on the counter. "I meant to ask you. When did you stop drinking?"

"Somewhere in Normandy. It was there, but it had, ah, lost its appeal somehow."

"Ah."

After a while she says, "Come on back to bed, dear."

He follows her back to the bedroom, climbs after her under the blankets. They are still warm from her body heat. They didn't make love earlier, and it comes to him now that he wouldn't mind it. Or perhaps it's simply her arms around him he needs, her fingers pushing his hair back from his forehead. Her lips against his. He burrows his face into her neck. It feels as good as it ever had. Better, now.


End file.
